


into rough seas so gentle

by goukyorin (sashimisusie)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashimisusie/pseuds/goukyorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cats in the Flooded District are strange, but exceptionally so today. Smith/Reynolds (Patho's Whaler headcanons)</p>
            </blockquote>





	into rough seas so gentle

**Author's Note:**

> With sincerest apologies to [patho's](http://pathopharmacology.tumblr.com) Whaler headcanons and much gratitude to [mugu](http://mugumugu.tumblr.com/) for the tweets that inspired this. Title almost wholly from A Saint About To Fall by Dylan Thomas.

It doesn't take Smith long to recite the Strictures. There are some things that are ingrained too deeply to be erased. He takes a quiet sort of comfort from the repetition of the words, the phrases soft as the gleam of sunset on the murky water below the rooftop. 

He’s usually alone but sometimes the cats follow him across the broken buildings, nosing at him for the dried fish he keeps in one of his belt pouches. Smith is halfway through the Third Stricture when he feels tiny paws on his knees.

The cats in Gristol are more fluff than anything else, scrawny from life outside but Smith isn’t sure he’s seen one quite like this before. There is a little hairy blob of something under the kitten’s nose. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a mustache.

He finishes the Strictures and turns around. It appears that the cats in the Flooded District have sprouted magnificent handlebar moustaches today.

Smith rubs a hand over his eyes and curses quietly as the cats rub their bewhiskered faces against his ankles. 

Damn it, Jenkins.

*

It takes Smith seven transversals to get all of the cats back into the dormitory. There are cats on the beds, cats on the floor and possibly cats on the ceiling if they take an instant dislike to Goggie. The wolfhound tilts her head, staring down at the kittens frolicking between her paws.

Well, maybe not the ceiling then but everywhere else is still fair game if he doesn't hurry.

“Hold still, Mr. Fluffkins!”

Smith freezes with scissors in one hand and a wriggly cat in the other when Reynolds transverses into the room. There is a pile of moustaches in his lap and he really has no way to explain why there are thirty cats with moustaches in the dormitory.

“Eli’s turn to cook and you’re up here giving mustache rides to the pussies?” Reynolds reaches over to pluck the cat from his hand.

Smith holds the meowing cat out of reach. “I found them in the Flooded District,” he says as if that will explain everything.

Reynolds sighs, reaches out for the cat again. “C’mon, let me help you out and you might be able to grab a bowl before Jenkins cleans out the pot. I’m not going to hurt them.”

Mr. Fluffkins lets out a yowl when Reynolds grabs him by the paws.

“Reynolds! You have to hold him gently, like this,” says Smith as he picks up another cat. “See?”

They fall into an easy sort of silence, with the purring of cats in between the snipping of scissors. 

“And that’s the last blasted moustache,” Reynolds announces, tossing the cat and moustache off him.

Twinkles lands with a flump, wrinkles his nose at the offending man and stalks off. Smith smiles a little as Reynolds gives the cat the finger. He almost laughs when he sees a moustache on top of Reynolds’s head.

Smith isn’t sure what happened next but in his defence, there were a lot of cats.

Reynolds lets out a surprised grunt when Smith trips into him, landing hard on his back on the floor with Smith on top. There is a moment of silence as they stare at each other.

There are a lot of things Smith wants as he straddles Reynolds on the floor. There are many things that he should not want and should not presume. It must show on his face because Reynolds’ eyes are gentle and he leans up to press a kiss against his lips.

“Come on,” Reynolds says. “Let’s get these cats out of here.”

The hands on Smith’s waist are solid, comfortable. It feels like Strictures at sunset, like the kneading of bread. 

These are things that he wants. Sometimes he gets them.


End file.
